Showing posts with label Obituary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Obituary. Show all posts

Shaun Akanbi

A little over six years ago, on Boxing Day 2012, I read in the news about a young black man who had been found murdered in his flat. He wasn't some anonymous stranger. I knew him. Several years earlier, Shaun and I had been, briefly, together.

In the weeks and months that followed, I would learn he had been stabbed to death, and his belongings stolen, by 20-year-old Moroccan Achraf Jandara, who he had met online and invited into his home.

It’s now six years since Shaun was murdered on 22 December 2012. The pain hasn’t eased. If anything, it’s worse.

I can't pretend we were close when he passed. We no longer spoke. In May 2009 he contacted me, out of the blue, to ask if I'd write something for him. I was annoyed that he had only reached out when, it seemed at the time, he wanted something. Annoyed, I ghosted him.

We didn't speak again.

It can feel like there is no one to talk to about the gnawing grief, the sense of loss, the futility of his death. The guilt at snubbing him. No one likes to talk about grief, least of all someone else's. So you dwell on it, alone, and the grief metastasises.

In my darkest moments, I find myself fighting back thoughts of what his last minutes must have been like; what it must have been like with this stranger he invited into his home. Was it quick? Did he suffer? Sometimes my mind lurches, involuntarily, to the worst possible scenarios. I find myself almost gasping for breath, my heart racing. I stifle a sob. He was just a little guy, five foot nothing, looking for some fun with another cute boy, not... whatever happened. Not that. I don't want to know exactly what happened, how it happened. I couldn't stand that.

In the days after reading of his death, I wrote, clumsily, about the afternoon we spent in Shepherd's Bush market. The incident with the kid's tracksuit still makes me smile, but something that happened afterwards has slowly taken hold in my memory of him. We were walking along Goldhawk Road, past a sportswear store. Across the road, two black youths, walking in the other direction, were staring menacingly. I asked Shaun if he knew them. He replied no. They know I'm not from this area, he said, darkly. Looking back, it was almost like a premonition.

I once Googled his name, and stumbled on various articles about his death. Some on Nigerian "news" outlets, and on forums and message boards. Don't do it. The comments are beyond vile, the worst homophobic bile you can imagine.

His Twitter page is still there. So is his Instagram. His last Tweet, two days before he died, is about Kat Slater, a character in EastEnders. That will always be his last Tweet, a young boy's musings on a soap queen. Kat Slater's story ended for him that Friday night. He didn't live to see Monday's episode. But Kat Slater is still on our screens, and every time I see her, I'm reminded of Shaun.

I keep getting drawn back to his Twitter page. It's still there, exactly the way he left it. His voice echoing across the years. One of these days it might disappear, and then it really will be like he's gone. I don't know what I'll do then.

It all started out as a mild curiosity in a junkyard, and now it's turned out to be quite a spirit of adventure

A D V E N T U R E S
I N  S P A C E
AND TIME
Courage isn't just a matter of not being frightened. It's being afraid and doing what you have to do anyway

"Great chunks of my past, detaching themselves like melting icebergs..."

Doctor Who is over fifty years old. We expect to see its cast and crew, increasingly, in the obituary pages.

 But knowing that doesn't make it suck any less, particularly when it's someone as barmy and lovely as Deborah Watling, who has passed away aged 69.

 For many years, most of her episodes were lost, destroyed by the BBC. It's comforting to know that in her latter years she enjoyed the return of two entire stories, The Web of Fear and Enemy of the World, and the interest and acclaim that entailed.

 She'll be missed.

Continued after the jump...

Robert Miles

DISCOGRAPHIC
W  H  E  R  E     W  O  R  D  S     F  A  I  L    ,     M  U  S  I  C     S  P  E  A  K  S

Robert Miles, the Italian musician best remembered for his 1995 trance hit Children, is dead. He was 47.

Continued after the jump...

#standwithorlando


19-year-old Jason Benjamin Josaphat, a baby. That Saturday night should have been the best Saturday night of his life, where he met the love of his life, or the best fuck of his life, or the worst fuck of his life, the one he laughed with his friends about later.

19-year-old Jason Benjamin Josaphat, someone's best friend, someone's secret crush, someone's future soulmate. A son.

19-year-old Jason Benjamin Josaphat. I should be posting his picture because he's fucking beautiful, because he's an Instaboy, because he was beautiful inside too, and he was loved. But instead I know 19-year-old Jason Benjamin Josaphat because he's dead, the face - just one of forty-nine faces - of a real life horror story. What was it like for him in those last moments of life? Do you dare to try and imagine it?

19-year-old Jason Benjamin Josaphat. A baby - our baby - who died before he lived.

#standwithorlando

Puff Johnson

Back in December, I discovered that Puff Johnson had died back in 2013. I had long admired her, and often wondered what had become of her.

The girl from Detroit, who had a couple of hits in 1996 (and released just one album, Miracle), had moved to South Africa in 2009, and it was only there that her death made the news.

But Puff always meant a lot to me. Her hits coincided with my formative teen years, and she was the soundtrack to early entanglements. Her two big hits - Forever More and Over And Over - didn't fade into the mists of time, and I've continued listening to her music in the twenty years since she disappeared.

And so, when I finally heard that she had died (I read about it on Wikipedia: the first line of her page is a dead giveaway: "Ewanya Johnson. December 10, 1972 – June 24, 2013"), I was horrified that no one else cared. No one even remembered her. Not even those for whom '90s R&B is whispered about with reverence. I asked friends. I asked colleagues at work. No one remembered. It was almost as if Puff Johnson was a figment of my imagination.

Then came the news that David Bowie had died. As much as Puff Johnson was a fixture of my teen years, Bowie was an iconic figure for people of a certain age, and '80s kids who liked him in Labyrinth. But I didn't get him. He was someone else's hero.

(When I first arrived in London, I lived for a time directly adjacent to Lambeth Hospital on Landor Road, around the corner from Bowie's first home at 40 Stansfield Road in Brixton. My boyfriend at the time would eventually end up in that hospital, sectioned under the Mental Health Act.)

Endless coverage has been devoted to Mr Bowie. So I'm writing here about Puff Johnson, a black girl from the Motor City who mattered a lot to a teenage boy twenty years ago. Maybe to you too, and you forgot about her. Look her up on YouTube.

She was good.

Taron O. Webb

Tonight, I belatedly learned of the death of one time porn star Taron O. Webb, aka CocoDorm's Pimp. The news came not through any gay news site, or even from the big gay porn news sites like The Sword and Queer Me Now, but by word of mouth, from a friend. Taron's passing wasn't covered by them: the life of a young black man isn't newsworthy enough, even if he was once a part of the industry those sites cover.

With no reputable news coverage of his passing, we're left with his Facebook page, flooded with condolences from friends, family and fans. Their words - and Taron's own - tell us a little about him. One moving post is left by one Moe Marquize, a former partner:

"They say never wait until it's too late to apologize & for that I'm so thankful I had a opportunity to tell you in person... how sorry I am & also to let you know I forgive [you] as well. People coming into [your] life at the unexpected time, and you was one of them. Now looking back every obstacles I had to overcome I overcame them from the lesson I learn from you (my first) and for that [you] will always remain in my heart... words can't explain how hurt I am right now, but I'm know your in a better place. I will always love you Taron O. Webb R.I.P (tore this pic up almost 7 years ago, every time I wanted to threw it away I couldn't, I'm glad I didn't."

Taron was seriously ill towards the end of his short life. On the 4th May, he posted, "Life is rough and can get very depressing watching your body deteriorate before your very own eyes having surgery after surgery and most of all doing it all alone with no one there to encourage you but yet I'll still lift my hands up until the Lord Jesus Christ and tell him thank you anyhow, thank you for what you have given me, thank you for being my God and my guide, and thank you that heaven is my final destination in the name of Jesus Christ thank you."

Two weeks later, he was dead.

Moe Marquize posted on 18th May, "Nobody will never know, you was my first my everything, I love [you] soo much Taron O. Webb I thank God I got to hold you right before you took your last breath.. I'm soo hurt right now, I can't stop cry.. please god, I need help."

That's what's left, lives touched, lives devastated. Those of us who knew of Taron through his performances - a short chapter in an even shorter life - are saddened, shocked, confused by the the jarring juxtaposition of sex and death, of youth and mortality. And there will be those who will write Taron off for the path he travelled; "another dead porn star", as if witnessing him having sex diminishes him, but not the viewer.

But he mattered. His life mattered, and his passing matters.

Taron O. Webb (1985-2015).


Robin Williams

WHITNEY, MICHAEL, Hoffman... You come out of watching an episode of EastEnders or True Blood, and it's there live on News 24. BREAKING. And then the name. Whitney, Michael, Hoffman... Dead at 48, 50, 46. There's the scrolling text along the bottom of the screen, the aerial footage of the death scene. A house, somewhere.

There's the shock of losing a loved one, but it's someone we never met. How do we process it? We think about their work, that song, that picture, that iconic moment. The good, the bad. We think, how did it come to this? Why did no one step in, step up?

Whitney, Michael, Hoffman. And now Robin.

It was only recently that I finally caught Mrs Doubtfire. Not long before that One Hour Photo. I still haven't seen Dead Poets Society. When I was a kid, I used to stick in my parent's VHS tape of The World According To Garp for the sexy nude scene. But whenever I hear Robin Williams, one picture comes to mind: The Birdcage, that joyful, mad, brilliant late '90s comedy tour de force. It's perfect, No.2 on the kaos Top 30 Gay Films of All Time. Haven't seen it? You should feel ashamed.

All that talent, all that success. You'd think you'd have it all, right? But Robin Williams, that funny dude from Mork & Mindy, took his own life at the age of 63. The guy who made so many of us laugh so much was in such pain that he took his own life. Imagine that. It's almost unbearable. It's heartbreaking.

What will you feel next time you watch Mrs Doubtfire?

Shaun Akanbi

Photo credit: Urban Shotz Photography.
THE DAY AFTER Christmas. "Kilburn murder victim identified as Shaun Akanbi," the Boxing Day headline read.

Below the headline, a picture of a boy I briefly dated, several years ago. "A post-mortem examination gave the cause of death as multiple stab wounds to the torso."

I hadn't seen Shaun in years, but we were once close. We were never the love of each other's lives, but for a brief moment in time, we belonged to each other.

Even after we went our separate ways (amicably. No drama. It just fizzled out), I was aware of him, peripherally, out there in the world. He was studying law when I knew him, but he went on to found Billy Boyce fashion, whose clothes media outlets have been at pains to point out have been worn by various celebrities (hijacking a story about a boy who's been killed. Their names overshadowing his). But Shaun was a success, doing what he loved.

Shaun back in the day.
No one seems to know yet what happened to him this Christmas. Will knowing the how, the why, make it any easier? No. But it's hell not knowing.

I remember the last night I spent with Shaun, all those years ago. We walked around Shepherd's Bush market looking for a tracksuit for him. Shaun was a tiny little guy, and couldn't find anything to fit. We went into a shop selling kid's clothes, underneath the railway arches, where he found something that fitted him. A tracksuit for a child. It seemed so funny at the time.

I'll always remember that day.

Mary Tamm


"Your" Doctor Who girl tends to be the one you grew up with. My friend John grew up in the '70s, and so has a particularly fondness for Katy Manning's Jo Grant. I'm an '80s baby, and so Sophie Aldred's Ace should be my favourite Who girl.

But my traumatic move to Australia in the early '90s coincided with a repeat (rare in those pre-multi-channel/DVD/dowmload days) of late '70s Doctor Who, and I fell head-over-heels in love with Mary Tamm's Romanadvoratrelundar - Romana for short.

She looked spectacular (I was entranced by her exquisite beauty, in that particular way gay boys are with certain women), and she was razor sharp, effortlessly cutting Tom Baker's Doctor down to size.

She wasn't a girl, she was, perhaps for the first time in Doctor Who, a woman. She was mesmerising and thrilling, stealing every scene she was in (and in real life, it turned out, not a haughty Southerner, but a down-to-earth Northern lass ). "I never, ever thought of Romana as a sex symbol. Glamorous, but not sexy... An old-fashioned, movie star style," she said once in an interview.

Her death - at 62, from cancer - is as sudden and unexpected as Elizabeth Sladen's last year, and Caroline John's just last month. But, as much as I love those other Who girls, Mary Tamm's Romana was special to me; extraordinary, magical, different. She was my Doctor Who girl, and I truly loved her to bits.


Doctor Who News has a round-up of Twitter reactions from her colleagues.

Read The Guardian's obitiuary.

Mary Tamm's official website.

No one listens

"I
always say how bullied I am, but no one listens. What do I have to do so people will listen to me?"

Those are the words of 14-year-old Jamey Rodemeyer from Buffalo, New York, who killed himself on Sunday after a campaign of homophobic bullying.

Jamey recorded an It Gets Better video earlier this year. This is his story.

Civilization is a movement, not a condition; it is a voyage, not a harbour

M A N N E Q U I N
M A N I A
special edition

Continued after the jump...

Taylor Siluwé

Taylor Siluwé, the author, and my friend, is dead. He was 45.

The news came, like the news usually does these days, on Facebook - some ambiguous words on someone's status update that gives a hint of something awry - but the words on fellow blogger The Gayte-Keeper's feed didn't leave room for misinterpretation: "Rest in peace Taylor Siluwé".

I knew Taylor was sick. He'd been diagnosed with lung cancer - fucking cigarettes - and was documenting his treatment on his blog, SGL Café. He did so with typical Taylor flare, and one of his last posts detailed his ill-advised escape from hospital, and gardening adventures with Trel, his boo. That was the Taylor I know and love, doing what he shouldn't be with a dude "half his age".

So I knew he was sick. And a friend told me lung cancer was the worst of the worst. But I just thought, hoped, told myself, he'd be alright. He had to be.

I read The Gayte-Keeper's status a couple of times, not quite taking it in, and then, with a mounting sense of panic, clicked on Taylor's Facebook page. The wall posts, real grief, virtual grief, were already mounting up. His boo Trel's page was groaning under the weight of condolences. Premier blogger Rod McCullom already had an obituary posted, as had Lambda Literary. And I broke down; I wept, and I've been crying for the last couple of hours. My friend is dead.

I've known Taylor for several years. He's supported me and my blog with a banner at the top of his. He liked what I was doing. He liked me, and I liked him. We chitchatted back and forth, and he came to be a trusted friend. More than that, a role model: more than ten years older (not that you'd know to look at him) he was the cool head and guiding hand more than a few times when I needed advice.

I once wrote a piece about David McAlmont's Diamonds Are Forever video. He was ridulously excited about this new (to him) black, openly gay artist. I promised I'd send him all his CDs, and set about acquiring McAlmont's back catalogue. That was a year or two ago. I had a couple of discs still left to find. That little pile of CDs is still gathering dust in a cupboard. I wish I'd sent them sooner.

To those of you who didn't know him, or hadn't read his blog or his books, or heard his dreams or ambitions, it's hard to desribe him. Razor sharp and one of the smartest people I've been lucky enough to meet, he was sexy (hell, have you seen those lips? They're a work of art!), and ambitious, a dreamer, and brilliant. He had a heart of gold. He was one of us. He was my friend.


One day your life will flash before your eyes. Make sure it's worth watching

R
eports are starting to appear that the actor and model Maurice Murrell has died.

His cousin, Keyontyli Goffney, has written on Facebook, "ALL I KNOW IS THAT MY WORLD IS GONE.... O GOD I DON'T UNDERSTAND YOUR CHOICE THIS TIME, BUT PLEASE GIVE ME, GIVE US THE STRENGTH TO LIVE WITH THIS. I LOVE YOU MAURICE THIS IS SO UNFAIR".

Murrell appeared in the film Finding Me, and its sequel, Finding Me: Truth, wich is due for release. The film's director, Roger Omeus Jr, posted this message on Facebook: "The lose of a family member is always very hard, and Maurice was family to us. We have lost a very kind and giving spirit. It's hard to believe we will no longer hear his laughter or see his smile, but what we will continue to feel is his positive energy. Maurice Murrell will forever be in our minds and in our hearts. So in a time like this rather than mourn the lose let us rejoice the wonderful life of someone we loved. May you rest in peace Maurice. I know you will forever be with us."

Our condolences to his family and friends.

"One day your life will flash before your eyes. Make sure it's worth watching."
Quotation; Gerard Way, American musician.

Elisabeth Sladen

E
lisabeth Sladen, the actress best known for her role as Sarah Jane Smith in Doctor Who, is dead. She was 63.

Her sudden death - from cancer - is shocking and unexpected. Six episodes from the fifth season of The Sarah Jane Adventures - a Doctor Who spin-off - had been completed at the time of her death.

Sladen's portrayal of Sarah Jane Smith is often cited as one of the best-loved Doctor Who girls, and the only one in nearly fifty years to gain her own spin-off show. Sladen played Sarah Jane from 1973-76, and returned in 1981, 1983, 2006, 2008 and 2010.

The huge affection for Sladen - and Sarah Jane - can be seen in the headlines on multiple news outlets. The story is the number 1 most read at BBC News. A quick Google search throws up a thread at JLS Forums, of all places, where young fans of the boyband have posted messages demonstrating that the actress' death has touched people of all ages.

Former Doctor Who lead Colin Baker wrote on Twitter, "Very sad to hear of the death of Lis Sladen. Great sympathy for her husband and daughter. She was far too young to be lost to them."

Stephen Fry wrote, "What terribly sad news about Elisabeth Sladen - her Sarah Jane was part of my childhood. Deepest sympathy to her family."

Noel Clarke wrote, "SARAHJANESMITHLIVES because Elisabeth Sladen made her Great. Liz, you were awesome and will be missed."

Former Doctor Who showrunner Russell T Davies said this: "I absolutely loved Lis. She was funny and cheeky and clever and just simply wonderful. The universe was lucky to have Sarah Jane Smith, the world was lucky to have Lis."

And they die an equal death - the idler and the man of mighty deeds

 Remembering those we lost in 2010: 
 those in the public eye, and those who 
 came to be for the wrong reasons... 

Rue McClanahan, the actress, 76.

Corey Haim, the actor, dead at 38.
Continued after the jump...

Indelible, irreparable, immeasurable, incalculable hate





"I think if two people love each other, then what the hell? I think that everyone should have the chance to be equally miserable, if they want."

Ho ho ho - Eminem uses a tired old sitcom joke as a Trojan horse to unveil his supposed newly discovered tolerance of the gays.

In fact, I could care less what the white trash rapper - bereft as he is of any real sense of racial identity - really thinks about the GBLT community. Maybe he's gay himself, maybe not. Maybe he's really been cool with it all along. It's totally irrelevant.

What matters is the damage he's done in the past - and present, because the garbage he's espoused hasn't gone away. It's held up as a cultural monument, a classic in pop culture history, and in hip-hop particularly.

Take Criminal, on which he raps, "Whether you're a fag or a lez, Or the homosex, hermaph or a trans-vest, Pants or dress - hate fags? The answer's yes."

And that's the tame stuff.

My friend Taylor Siluwé writes Eminem's lyrics off as "little juvenile, 'phobic mis-steps" and says "I never thought he was particularly homophobic."

I love Taylor and can understand his point of view: he welcomes the rehabilitation of someone who has form as an "enemy" of the gay community. MOC Blog echoes this, commenting, "The power of redemption serves to heal both the giver and the receiver."

But in his article at SGL Café, Taylor himself hits the nail on the head: "After all, he's a role model whether any of us want him to be or not."

Countless young gay men - many of them just kids - are dead as a direct result of the culture of homophobia that dictates that gays are punchbags. Young boys like Jorge Mercado and Jason Mattison Jr. were brutally murdered last year, whilst others - such as Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover - take their own lives.

The influence Eminem - and his ilk - exerts over young people cannot be underestimated. He is complicit in the deaths of each and every kid who's been taken by homophobic violence. How lovely that Eminem has chosen to say something slightly positive (and let's be clear, it is slight) about gay marriage. But has he renounced his lyrics? Is he doing anything concrete to make amends? His words are just words - for someone with so much blood on his hands, it's way too little, too late.

The stain he has left is indelible, and the damage irreparable. His legacy of hate is immeasurable, and the loss incalculable. This isn't hyperbole, it's fact that no amount of PR can gloss over.

I wonder - and so should you - what Jorge, Jason and Carl would be doing right now, had they not been slaughtered? And whilst you're thinking about that, ponder on this: does Eminem even know their names?

Kristian Digby Is Dead

Kristian Digby, the BBC television presenter, is dead.

The openly gay daytime television host was found in his London flat today. The cause of death has not yet been reported.

Property expert Digby fronted the likes of To Buy Or Not To Buy, Living in the Sun, House Swap and Buy it, Sell it, Bank It.

His agent Jo Wander said: "I am devastated by the loss. He was a lovely guy and a very talented presenter and director. I will miss him hugely and my thoughts at this time are with his family and his many friends. He will be sorely missed."

Kristian Digby was 32.

And they die an equal death - the idler and the man of mighty deeds

Remembering those we lost in 2009: some well known, some less so, and all of them important.

Firstly, the brothers who were taken this year, all of them young, and mostly murdered in hate crimes. These are the faces who made headlines, but spare a thought for the countless young gay men tortured and executed under homophobic regimes across the globe: Iran, Jamaica and any number of African countries.


2009 was quite the year for celebrity deaths. Although many led full lives and passed away in their latter years. Many were snatched away tragically young...

Also lost in 2009: Bob May (the Robot in Lost In Space), Tony Hart (children's TV presenter), Jade Goody (the Big Brother star), Mickey Carroll (one of the original Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz), Farrah Fawcett, Patrick Swayze, Barry Letts (the Doctor Who director, producer & writer), Maggie Jones (the Coronation Street actress), and porn stars Dustin Michaels and Daxx Reed.

In 2008, 28 teenage boys were murdered in London. This year, that number more than halved - but the death toll still stands at twelve...


 
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